


Fight Like You're Running Out of Time

by jelly_pies



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Electrocution, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelly_pies/pseuds/jelly_pies
Summary: Peter startles awake in front of a glaring light and a camera.“See, there’s your proof of life,” a voice says. “You’ll meet our demands this time, won’t you, Stark? You have thirty-six hours.”-Peter is kidnapped, and Tony races against the clock to get him back. But even through the torture, Peter can’t help feeling like something is off—like all of this was meant for someone else, not him.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark (minor), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 261
Collections: The Friendly Neighborhood Exchange, carolina’s | fics that have been devouRED





	Fight Like You're Running Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagicaLyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaLyss/gifts).



> Written for the prompt Kidnapped Fic (with hurt/comfort and a happy ending). I hope you like it!!
> 
> Shoutout to my awesome beta reader [@probablyprocrastinatingrightnow](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/probablyprocrastinatingrightnow) <3

_Tick. Tock._

Peter wakes up to his senses pulsing. To searing light in his face. He twists away, and the gray room spins. That darn clock above the door is way louder than it has any right to be. Loud, pounding painfully on his head.

_Tick. Tock._

“—last time. You _will_ give us those plans, Stark,” a deep voice drones.

Loud, too loud. Peter twists away. And stops. The cuffs on his wrists rattle against the metal chair.

A man steps in front of him, momentarily blocking the glaring light.

“See, he’s awake. Is that enough proof of life for you?”

A hand grabs Peter by the hair. Jerks his head up, and without warning, jabs a needle into the base of his neck. Peter cries out.

“In case either of you get any ideas, this drug neutralizes your pet’s spider powers.” A silent, dreadful beat. “Yes, we do know about that.”

_Tick. Tock._

The man releases Peter’s head, and it lolls forward. Eyes now focusing on the floor for the first time, Peter can just make out thin metal legs in front of him beyond the range of the harsh light.

Legs of a tripod. A camera.

There’s a numb sensation from where the needle struck, and it spreads from Peter’s neck, up to his head and down through his shoulders. It makes the blazing light hurt like needles stabbing his eyes. Each stroke of the clock and each lilt of the man’s voice pounds in Peter’s ears. 

The answer to his situation floats tantalizingly in front of him. A jigsaw puzzle Peter can’t solve. That he's too numb to solve.

“You know all too well what I’m capable of, Stark. You’ll meet our demands this time, won’t you?”

 _Fishing hook. Bait._ Peter’s wading through water in his own brain, fighting through his own senses. _Random. Ransom?_

Answer. Puzzle. He can get this. But it’s too loud. Everything is too loud. Too bright. Too much.

Too numb.

“You have thirty-six hours.”

The glaring light switches off. Peter recoils in pain, a pounding ache behind his eyes.

_Taken. Taken. Taken._

Too loud. The realization, the answer coming all at once, too loud. His senses, too loud.

The fear, too loud.

The man turns to him. “You better hope Stark takes that countdown seriously, kid.”

_Tick. Tock._

* * *

“Van, right there.” Happy pauses the video and moves to tap the screen, then yanks his finger back in surprise when it goes straight through the holographic display. “Ah, jeez! Anyway,” he clears his throat, “recognize it?”

The security footage reflects in Ned Leeds’ wet eyes as he looks over it one more time, as if a new detail could pop out any second.

“No,” he murmurs after a pause. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. Peter and I split at the corner, I didn’t see the van following us.”

“Do you think Peter saw it? Were his super senses doing that—that thing he does, or was he being weird...?”

“No, no, Mr. Happy, it was—” The kid takes a breath. “Nothing like that. We were just talking. Everything was normal, I swear.”

“What were you talking about?” Tony speaks up from the corner of the room.

Ned gawks at him for a second, as if he’d almost forgotten the billionaire was even there. Tony doesn’t blame him. He’d hardly spoken a word since the kidnappers’ video of Peter surfaced. Since the ground dropped from under his feet. Thank God for Happy Hogan, or their tracing of Peter’s last steps before the abduction would have been proceeding at a snail’s pace with Tony in charge.

Tony’s heart rate still picks up erratically at the mention of his mentee’s name. His hands shake. He can’t even trust himself in the state he’s in, not when there’s this much on the line. Not when Peter’s life is at stake.

“It was, um.” Ned starts to answer then squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching his nose, and a quick wave of nausea hits Tony. Peter does the exact same thing when there’s something he’s trying to remember. “We were just, um, talking about school. That robotics project we were working on, and, uh… Oh, I asked him how the… you know. How the _special internship_ is going.” Ned whispers the last part as though there aren't only him, Happy, and Tony in the room.

“And how’d he say it was going?” Happy presses. “Did anything freaky happen on patrol?”

“Nothing, sir. He said it was good. P-Peter… he seemed good. Everything was normal...” Ned starts to stumble over his words, voice breaking. Tony gets up and pats Ned's shoulder. It's an awkward gesture at best, but someone's got to comfort this poor kid, and God knows between him and Happy, he's the better option. “One thing, though, Mr. Stark,” Ned sniffs. “Peter mentioned that, um, he hadn’t talked to you in a while? A few weeks? That’s the only strange thing I remember.”

Happy shoots Tony a look. Tony brushes it off. He can’t afford to think about that. Not right now. It would only send him on another downward spiral. “I was busy,” he answers Ned flatly.

“Oh. But I’m not saying… like, he wasn’t mad at you or anything, Mr. Stark, sir. Peter just thought, you might just be busy too... There was that thing on the news with that secret Avengers mission or something, and they said Iron Man was on the case.”

Tony only nods in reply.

“So that’s…” Ned sniffs again, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s it. I’m sorry, that’s all that happened. We split up and I went home, and then—then May called my mom, all worried, and Mr. Happy called me, and I don’t know… that’s it. I’m-so-sorry-I-wish-I-could-be-more-of-a-help.” Ned squeaks the last string of words as his eyes start to tear up again.

“No, Ted, thank you, thanks for coming.” Tony claps him on the back before the tears can begin for real. “Happy will take you home, yeah?”

“Alright, let’s go, Leeds.”

Ned shuffles his feet forward despondently, head down. He turns at the door. “You’ll find him, right?” he mumbles in Tony’s general direction. “If anyone can find him, sir, it’s you.”

Tony can’t find the heart to answer.

And when the kid leaves, the facade falls. Tony crashes on a chair. He presses his fingers against his closed eyelids, as if those can stop his tears. As if it can burn that video from his mind. That image of Peter, restrained. Drugged. Scared.

“FRIDAY, where are we on the tracing?” Tony asks shakily.

“The trace of the vehicle turned up no results,” his AI replies. “I’m still analyzing the video, but if it's anything like last time, Boss, I'm afraid that it will be a dead end, too.”

The words strike Tony down, pin him sprawled and helpless against that chair. Deep down, he’d guessed as much, but hearing it said out loud gives the harsh reality a different kind of power.

“Alright, let’s not prioritize the video. Keep analyzing that data from… last time. Hammer’s our lead.”

“Working on it, Boss. You better get going, your appointment with Dr. Cho is in 30 minutes.”

Appointment. It’s a downright paradox, Tony thinks, that something as normal as appointments and schedules could still hold in a time like this. Peter Parker has been abducted, the world should stop turning. His world has.

Since the kidnappers sent that video, the only timetable Tony finds himself thinking about is the one holding Peter’s life in its clutches.

He has thirty-four hours.

* * *

They keep him in a cell. Low ceiling, square, just wide enough for Peter to stretch out on the floor if he lies diagonally to the gray metal walls. No furniture. They march him out to the bathroom twice in about the first twelve hours of his captivity; otherwise, it’s back to the bareness of the walls.

Peter supposes he should be thankful. There’s nothing in the cell to overwhelm his senses. It’s plain, empty, except for a streak of dried blood on one wall. A lot of it. But Peter turns away and tries not to think about it. He can’t let himself think about it. 

Whatever drugs they had administered, it’s still kicking in. Peter’s sure: he’d tried his strength against the door. And he’d tried to break his handcuffs the first time they took him out for a bathroom break. True to his luck, it didn’t work, and worse—one guard saw him. The second time he’s dragged to the bathroom, Peter barely limps along, breathing heavily through a couple of bruised ribs. He doesn’t try it again.

Now he’s back in the cell, staring up at the dim fluorescent bulbs. There’s no natural light, no way to tell the time. The last clock Peter saw was from the room where they took the video and where they’d stripped him of his Stark watch, his phone, everything but his clothes. By Peter’s best estimate, it’s been about twelve hours since he woke up in front of that glaring light and the camera. Who knows how much longer since he was kidnapped off the street.

Twelve hours. Peter imagines what could have happened in the outside world in twelve hours. It’s not exactly the most cheerful subject, thinking of his loved ones worrying for him, but right now the teenager can find much darker places for his mind to wander.

He thinks of May, and he wonders how long it took for the situation of his kidnapping to sink in. He wonders if she’s seen the video. Did Mr. Stark show her? Of course Mr. Stark would show her. Is she worrying herself sick? Is she still at the apartment, all by herself? God, Peter hopes not. He really hopes not.

Then his mind wanders to Mr. Stark. He seems to be the only reason Peter is even being held hostage, and Peter just hopes his mentor isn’t beating himself up—because God knows the man has an incredible capacity for that. But Peter trusts him—not just Iron Man, but Tony himself, who’d already proven time and time again he would move heaven and hell for Peter. And even if he can’t this time, Peter knows failing to rescue him would hurt Tony far more than it could ever hurt himself. And there’s a morbid kind of comfort in that.

And Ned—he’d literally just been with Ned three seconds before the van pulled up. Before Peter slapped at what he thought was some insect on his neck, and pulled his fingers away with a dart. Ned must have made it home. Peter hopes to God that Ned made it home. But the kidnappers waited until Ned was gone before taking him, didn’t they? They don’t want Ned. Ned isn’t leverage on Tony Stark. Ned doesn’t have powers.

His powers. If anything in this entire misadventure concerns Peter the most, it’s his powers. The fact that they even know about Spider-Man shows that whoever his abductors are, they aren’t some goons off the street. These aren’t the neighborhood types that the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man makes enemies with. These men came prepared. This is an Avengers level threat. An Iron Man level villain.

Out of the league of some teenager swinging through Queens.

 _Get it together,_ Peter chides himself. He’s fought worse than this. He’s hung off a goddamn plane. But Peter has never felt as helpless as he does in that bare room. Stripped of his powers. Scared.

He's not Spider-Man here. He's just some abducted kid.

_Click._

The sound of the door interrupts Peter’s whirling thoughts.

“You’re not gonna give us any trouble again, are you, kid?”

Peter immediately sits up, nodding more at the man’s threatening tone than at his words.

But they don’t take him to the bathroom this time. Wrong turn. Peter cranes his head back down the familiar hallway just to be sure. Nope, definitely not going there.

For a second Peter allows himself to hope. His stomach is growling in his ears; he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch at school. The drug they used may have suppressed his powers, but it didn’t do anything for Peter’s super metabolism—which equates to super hunger. Maybe that's all it is, he thinks, maybe he just gets to eat. But then they open a door, push him into the room—and Peter’s knees buckle.

It’s the same room they shot the ransom video in; Peter remembers the layout and the clock over a side door. But everything else is different. A metal table stands in the center of the room instead of the chair. The floodlight hangs from a taller frame, pointing down. Cameras too are mounted on the low ceiling, lenses focused on the table. A team of people in scrubs stand to the side.

But it’s only when they march him forward, and Peter sees the cuff-like restraints on the table’s sides, that he starts to struggle for real.

A person in a surgical mask and rubber gloves brings out a syringe with the familiar amber liquid. Peter bites at the man’s hand desperately, but the needle finds its mark anyway. They pin him down against the table—remove the handcuffs, stretch one arm towards the first restraint—and Peter struggles and screams and claws like he never has.

Then the familiar numbness settles in. Overpowered, Peter is strapped to the table. He shuts his eyes and urges his thoughts back to pictures of May. Of Tony. Of home.

There are much darker places for his mind to wander.

Peter steals a glance at the clock before they push him fully on his back. Fourteen hours since he was last in this room.

He still has twenty-two hours to go.

* * *

Cho retracts the last needle with barely a flinch from her patient, and Tony sits up sharply the second it’s out, as if the medbay table is padded with flames instead of foam.

“How are we looking?” he inquires, pulling a shirt back on.

“Same as last night. You’re doing good, Tony,” the doctor replies. “Long road to go, but the tissue is healing. Blood pressure’s concerning, though. I’d recommend reducing stress factors by about, a thousand percent—” Tony frowns— “although I recognize that’s not exactly an option under the circumstances,” Cho finishes sympathetically.

“Only option’s to bring him home, Doc.”

“You know where to find me when you do.”

Tony winces at the implication—that Peter would need extensive medical attention after they got him out. _When_ they got him out. But he knows Cho only says it from a position of practicality. They already know how this song goes.

"Tony." Happy crashes into the glass door of the examination room. "New video. You're gonna want to see this."

 _No, I don’t._ Tony still-feeble legs pound after Happy's down the hallway, the same thought repeating over and over in his mind: _No, I don’t._ If he had the choice, he would not see those videos, because they wouldn’t exist, because the fucking trace would be working, because Peter would be rescued and they wouldn’t have to rely on Justin-fucking-Hammer’s ransom videos for updates. He doesn’t want to see them. But as it stands, he has to. 

They round the corner, and Tony’s stomach plummets to the floor when he catches a glimpse of the picture on the screen. The video isn’t even playing yet; it’s just the thumbnail. But it’s enough to correct Tony’s previous thought.

Not a ransom video. A torture video. 

“18 hours” flashes in front of a background of Peter secured to a table. Screaming.

* * *

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

“—get this video… you see… time productively, Stark...”

Screaming. Numb. Loud. Always, loud loud loud—

“—running a trace on us? And you thought that would work?”

Needle. _Drip. Drop._

“Didn’t work last time, did it?”

They give him a break. Turn the floodlights off. Still, Peter can hear it— _drip, drop._

“Can’t believe I’m saying… but, pretty sorry… just a kid.” The man’s tone isn’t as sharp now that the camera is off.

Peter twists his head to the side towards the voice, but regrets it as soon as a wave of nausea hits along with the movement.

“—don’t even care about Spider-Man, to be honest.”

Dizzy. Loud.

“If you weren’t connected to Tony Stark the way you are, well... You would’ve made it home to your aunt, kid. Finished your little science project with your buddy—”

“Mr. Stark won’t do it.” Peter’s voice comes out stronger than he expected. He swallows down the saliva, and the fear. “He won’t give up—whatever you maniacs want from him… just… you better face facts, man, he’s not giving in.”

“And what’s his other option? You think he’ll come for you?”

Peter sets his jaw. “There’s bigger things at stake than me.”

“I think you underestimate what you mean to him, bud. Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t hope Iron Man’s gonna come crashing through that door and just carry you out any second.” The man pauses. “He won’t. But don’t tell me you don’t hope that.”

“I don’t. I hope he blasts you and all your buddies first.”

The man doesn’t answer. The lights come back on.

_Drip. Drop._

Screaming.

“Your little pet’s running his mouth, Stark.”

_Tick. Tock._

Screaming.

“Sixteen hours.”

* * *

“A-and he was—just there! And—”

“I know,” Pepper whispers.

“Just—fucking—lying there, Pep, and taking it—” Tony brings his hands up to yank his hair.

Pepper takes them in hers, gently holding them still. "I know."

"I don't know what I'm doing. God. I—I don't know." Without his shaking hands as a shield, Tony curls his head down on his chest instead, like a turtle seeking a nonexistent shell. Seeking a hole to crawl in, because they just watched his—fucking—kid being tortured, and if Tony can’t protect the people he cares about the most, what the hell is he even good for?

It takes him a moment to register Pepper curling her body around him in a loose embrace. Her head on top of his, her arms around his back. Being his shell.

"Yes, you do." Her voice is muffled in his hair. She’s close enough for him to smell the perfume he had gifted her, and it helps calm his nerves. "You do. I know you want to tear them up by their roots, Tony, but that takes time. You’re doing your best for Peter by doing things your way, not Hammer’s. And that means being patient. You can't just give those bastards what they want." Pepper's voice cracks. "We all know what they're capable of."

"I'm sacrificing Peter."

"Tony." Her tone is pleading. "Don't do this to yourself."

"Am I even in any condition to be making these decisions, Pep? Now?”

Ned Leeds’ question echoes in Tony’s ears. _“Peter mentioned that, um, he hadn’t talked to you in a while?”_ Happy’s concerned look flashes before his eyes. 

And then Tony feels a light pressure on his hair. “So step back if you need to,” Pepper says with a kiss to the top of his head. “Happy and I will deal with Hammer from the SI angle, and Rhodey with the Avengers. Remember, Tony.” She plants her hands on his shoulders, a steadying touch, and meets his gaze. “We want Peter back, too. We’re doing this together.”

Tony looks into Pepper’s eyes, but all he can see is the banner from the latest video. _Twelve hours._

* * *

There’s a streak of dried blood on Peter’s wall.

Or perhaps he should say previous Hammer Industries CEO Justin Hammer’s wall—from conversation scraps, Peter had worked out the identity of his kidnappers’ boss within the first few hours of torture. That’s all it was, really: torture. No interrogations, they didn’t need any information from him. They just want him to scream for the camera.

There’s a streak of dried blood on his cell wall.

Last time he was in here he avoided looking at it. He still wants to avoid it now, wants to face the other way, but he can’t move. Peter can only still where they’d dropped him, staring forward.

There’s a lot of dried blood on Peter’s wall.

And it is strangely out of place in that dull holding cell, the only splash of color among all the gray. It just feels _off_ —and strangely, Peter can relate. He can relate to a streak of dried blood on the wall, great, so this is what he’s come to. But it’s true. Peter feels something is off.

He felt it when he was lying on that awful metal table, the men tightening the straps, as if they’d been pre-adjusted for someone else. He felt it when they’d threatened Peter with an electrocution device, before he passed out and woke up back in his cell.

They had waved that tool around in front of the camera, and even though Peter couldn’t hear what the man was saying through the ringing in his ears, he could see it. He would have guessed that it was a baton, until he noticed the electrical cord on one end, and the round shape of the other. As wide as Peter’s hand, with short prongs like a plug. Peter’s never seen anything like it, and he can’t begin to imagine how this device would be used as a torture implement. Still, Peter couldn’t help but note even through his drug-induced haze how _different_ it felt to have that waved around his field of vision.

He can't explain it, it's just an instinct, a tingle. But something is off. Strange. Out of place.

Like some poor stranger’s dried blood on Peter’s prison wall.

Like this was not meant for him. Like Peter doesn’t belong here.

Like someone else does.

The door opens. Peter hears one set of footprints, and then the person, whoever it is, bends over him—and slowly pours water from a plastic bottle into Peter’s mouth.

“I’m just gonna check your vitals, kid. No trouble, alright? Best for both of us.”

Peter knows that voice. He recognizes it from the other room, the man in scrubs. _"Pretty sorry… just a kid.”_

So when the man removes the handcuffs from behind his back, Peter doesn’t struggle.

“How are we doing?” The man takes out a stethoscope and a tablet.

“Wow, small talk?” Peter groans as he rolls slowly onto his back, feeling his now free wrists for the first time in hours. “That’s the worst thing you’ve sprung on me yet.”

“I’m doing my job. If Stark would get a fucking move on you’d be out of here by now.”

Maybe it’s just the metal of the stethoscope on his chest, but Peter feels like he’s been burned by dry ice. “H-he hasn’t… made any move yet?”

“Not as fast as my boss would like. Are you sure we got the right kid? Seems you're not as much leverage as we thought."

Peter's confident words from back on the table ring in his ears. _"There’s bigger things at stake than me."_

But only "I… don't know," falls simple and cracked from his lips now. Maybe that's all that's left in him now that he's away from the adrenaline of the needle and the torture room. All that’s left is simple. Cracked.

“You’ll live,” the man says after a while, retracting the stethoscope. “But I’ll warn you, if the fish doesn’t bite, we’ll resort to worse tactics. We weren’t waving that electrocutor around your face earlier for nothing.”

Peter shuts his eyes. “You’re worse than all of them,” he breathes out. “You—say you’re sorry, and go about business as usual, torturing a kid. God, what… sick person does that?” Peter’s sure he would see a dangerous look in the man’s face right now if he looks up. But the reminder of the circular electrocution device fans something fresh and defiant into his words. “Mr. Stark’s not gonna meet your demands. He’ll find another way, he always does.”

“Misplaced confidence,” the man scoffs. “How much trust do you have in someone who hasn’t even been in contact with you for almost a month?”

He replaces the handcuffs and gets up, leaving Peter staring at the wall. At the streak of dried blood on the wall.

“Manage your expectations while you can, kid. You’ve only got ten hours.”

* * *

Tony peruses the actual and holographic screens all over his workshop wall. A bottle of pills sits on one side of his desk, a mug of coffee on the other. In the corner flashes the harsh red light of the digital countdown timer that Tony had FRIDAY start since the abductors’ first video. DUM-E, U, and Butterfingers hum morosely under it, like they, too, feel the pound of each passing second.

All in all, it’s a depressing scene to walk into. 

“Hey.”

Tony tears his eyes from the screen to turn towards the newcomer at the door, and pushes his chair back from the table when he sees who it is. “May?”

May Parker steps slowly forward into his workspace. “Your, uh, robot guard let me in.”

“Oh, yes, FRIDAY—” Tony rubs his eyes, adjusting to the dim light away from the screens. “I instructed her to give you access to wherever I am.”

May nods shortly, glancing through the holographic displays and code running on screens. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

Tony nods and waves to his cold cup of coffee. “Can I get you anything?”

“You do this a lot?” May still has her eyes on the screens like nothing had been said.

“I’m not always on this side of the rescue mission.”

May nods again, but Tony can tell her mind is elsewhere. He wonders what kind of hell she must be going through. First her siblings-in-law, then her husband, and now the kid who might as well be her own son. Tony can’t even begin to imagine the kind of pain of losing one’s child.

Although, maybe this kidnapping situation is the closest he’s ever gotten to experiencing it.

“I wanted to check in on the search,” May says. “And… and I just wanted someone to talk to. Sorry if I’m intruding.”

“Ms. Parker,” Tony replies sincerely, “you have as much of a right to be here as I do.”

“I can’t help feeling helpless.”

“Me too.”

“Tony, you will tell me, right? If there’s anything… the smallest thing I can do. I know you’re still in poor condition, and I have no real experience in—in rescue missions, obviously, but…”

“Hey, none of this is on you. I don’t… I can’t imagine… You’re putting your child’s life in my hands when you agreed to not give in to the demands, May. I couldn’t ask for any more.”

“If these monsters are who you say they are, then Peter wouldn’t want that either.”

“I swear I’m doing everything I can—with FRIDAY, the search, everything—”

“I know.” The woman’s eyes, as fiercely as they burn whenever she’s anywhere near the red countdown clock, are strangely comforting. “I know. I haven't always been a fan, Tony, but I know now how you are around Peter. I can’t promise I won’t be mad with grief if… if this doesn’t work. But I know you try your best for him.” May straightens up, scanning the screens again. "So where are we?"

Tony sighs as he waves at the ongoing satellite scans. “Could be any second. Or hours from now.”

“Right.” May’s quick glance at the countdown timer doesn’t escape Tony.

He gets up from his chair, groaning quietly as his body protests the change. “He’ll be alright,” Tony says, although he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince May or himself.

May bites her lip. “How do you know that?”

“Because Peter is one of the strongest people I know. And because he’s your kid. And because he’s not—” Out of nowhere, Tony’s voice breaks off. His right hand shakes, and he grips it with his left. “He’s not supposed to be there,” he rasps. “It’s not supposed to be him. And it’s—it’s wrong on every—fucking—level.”

May fixes her gaze on him, solid, searching.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Tony half-laughs to disguise a sob. “I don’t know how you hold it together.”

“I’m not,” May replies quietly.

“You remind me of Peter.” The admission falls before Tony can stop it. The kid is on his mind constantly. The kid he’d missed for a month, only to come back and find out that Peter's _gone._ The kid who’s a ball of energy, but whose private, quiet strength now stares back at him from May Parker’s eyes.

She reminds him of Peter. A lot of things remind him of Peter.

There’s a pause with nothing but the scrolling code in the background and the bots’ quiet hums. And then May smiles narrowly. “You do, too.”

The night is broken by a beep. An electronic alarm. May and Tony turn to the screens in unison, where a single word flashes in bright red in the middle of the largest screen: _MATCH._

“Tony?” May says in a tight voice.

Tony dives back into his seat, holograms and information exploding on the displays at his frenzied typing.

“Boss, we have a hit,” FRIDAY’s voice sounds from overhead.

A satellite picture of a building opens on the screen directly facing Tony. “FRI, call Rhodey,” Tony breathes. “Call everybody.”

“Already on it.”

As his best friend’s contact picture pops up on the screen, as FRIDAY loads the location’s schematics into all suit systems, as the world erupts in chaos around him—finally, after all the fearful quiet—Tony spots two things reflected on a black corner of the screen.

First, May’s face, a shaking hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

And second, the cruel red numbers of the countdown timer. Six hours.

Tony can only hope that will be enough.

* * *

Six hours.

Five hours.

Four hours.

Until Peter isn’t sure anymore. Until time is a far-away concept.

Time. It used to be his biggest concern. The countdown they always repeated after each video. Sand in an hourglass pouring on his head, slowly drowning him. But after hours upon hours strapped to the table, the seconds flood away in an infinite, uncountable stream.

They are angry. Peter perceives that much, even through the drug-induced haze. They are angry, and time is running out, and they are hurting Peter for it.

Gone are the false sympathies for a captive teenager. Now they draw out Peter’s screams, and they laugh. Peter hears someone say, “Come on, you can do better! The first guy screamed louder than that!”

The round plug-like device they were waving in his face the first time? An electrocutor, indeed. Thin uneven prongs arranged in a circle around the tool’s end, which is about as wide as his palm, form a pattern that triggers a memory in Peter’s mind. Sharp needles of electricity burst from each of them, punching pinpricks on Peter’s skin.

 _Not its purpose. Not made for surface contact,_ the engineer side of Peter’s brain observes through a fog of pain.

 _Shut up. It’s still killing you, what does it matter,_ the other side retorts.

That was about three hours ago, when the second round of torture started. Now the sand in the hourglass flows freely, and all Peter knows is pain.

He’s gonna die here. God, he’s gonna die here. Peter had accepted it as a distant possibility when he woke up in front of a glaring floodlight and a camera. But to face it head-on now? Almost hurts more than the power-draining drugs and the electrocution.

He’s gonna die and he’s never gonna see May again.

Never gonna see Mr. Stark.

Three hours.

Two hours.

One hour.

May.

Mr. Stark.

Electrocutor. Pain. A round end as wide as his hand, thin prongs around it.

Mr. Stark.

Electricity. Familiar shape.

Tony.

_Boom._

The edges of Peter’s consciousness can only just make out a huge explosion. Bright lights, and gunfire, and the whoosh of something heavy soaring through the air. Crashing, metal on metal.

The electrocution stops, and Peter is left staring upward, unmoving. A familiar repulsor sound whirs above him. Peter catches a glimpse of shiny red and gold, and all of a sudden relief floods his body faster than any drug.

Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark is standing above Peter, arm outstretched, and Peter flashbacks to a memory years ago at the Stark Expo. Except this time it’s not robots Iron Man shoots down, but Peter’s captors, who fall around him like fleas. Other shapes move around them; Peter thinks he sees War Machine and another explosion in the distance. Everything is still loud, too loud—but suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. Because Mr. Stark is standing by his side.

It clicks in Peter’s mind faster than any switch. Mr. Stark. Safe.

Tony is standing by his side. And that means Peter is safe.

Then the gunfire ceases. It’s replaced by groaning and metal clinking, like cuffs. As Peter scans the room, his eyes fall on the clock on the wall, but for the first time he doesn’t even read it. He doesn’t need to. The hourglass sand pouring on his head melts into water and warmth and Mr. Stark’s eyes as he retracts his helmet to look at him.

“God— _Peter._ Kid.”

The restraints are removed, and Peter bolts upward. Tony catches him in his arms.

“Tony? Are you—am I…?”

“You’re safe, Peter.”

“Tony?” Peter can’t help the sobs, the tears that choke his words as he mumbles them into Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“It’s—it’s okay,” Tony replies. His voice is choked up, too. “You’re okay.”

Exhaustion takes over. Delirium. Peter doesn’t remember how it happens, but soon enough he finds himself carried bridal-style in Mr. Stark’s arms, and he hears the roar of a quinjet starting up overhead. Feels the glare of sunlight and the chill of the breeze.

He finds himself curling into a ball against Mr. Stark’s armor. As small as possible. As safe as possible.

And as Peter nestles himself against his mentor’s chest, he finds himself staring at the blue light in the middle.

And suddenly it clicks in Peter’s mind, faster than any switch.

Mr. Stark.

Familiar shape.

Mr. Stark.

A round end as wide as his hand. Thin slots around it.

Tony.

* * *

It’s Tony keeping watch in Peter’s room when the kid wakes up. May had just stepped out for some well-needed rest after all the bustle, with the reunions and tears and checkups in the medbay, and several medical procedures that May insisted on helping with herself. Finally the poor kid had fallen into a fitful sleep, lying pale under the white sheets.

Suddenly Peter screams. His head whips around, arms frantically tugging at the padded restraints that hold them to the side of the bed.

“Peter! Pete—shit—” Tony is at his side in a second. He grips Peter’s shoulders. “Peter, it’s okay!”

“No no no—Mr. Stark won’t give in—Mr. Stark won’t—”

“Peter, you’re safe. Hey. Kid, look at me.”

It takes a couple of minutes, but recognition sparks in Peter’s eyes, and eventually his breathing slows down. “M’s’r Stark?” The way Peter whispers his name, like he’s afraid it’s not real, that it’s not really Tony, breaks the older man’s heart.

“Yeah, Underoos. I’m here,” he whispers back.

“Why—?”

“I’m really sorry, bud, but we had to make a call.” Tony reaches over and unfastens both arm bands. “You had a nightmare a couple hours ago, and you ripped several stitches open with your super strength. Now that you’re awake I’m taking them off, alright? They’re off.”

Peter quietly watches him remove the restraints. “My strength’s back?” he says in a small voice.

“It is,” Tony reassures. “Drug’s coming out of your system. You’ll be back to your old self in no time, I promise.”

Peter’s head slowly swivels around, taking in his surroundings—the monitors tracking his vitals—blank walls of the standard Tower recovery room—and then Peter halts, eyes haunted and focusing on something behind Tony.

Tony turns around to see a wall clock over the door.

“So as—as I was saying.” Tony’s voice is forcefully casual as he gets up and walks toward the door. “You just need some rest. The antidote Dr. Cho gave you is kicking in, and your healing factor’s pretty much taking care of everything else.” Tony takes the clock down and stows it behind a chair, all the while kicking himself for not noticing the detail sooner. “How do you feel? Better?”

Peter’s eyes exude a quiet thankfulness as Tony returns to his bedside. “A little.”

“Anything else I can do for you? You want to call May?”

Peter considers it for a second. “Not if she’s sleeping, she looked pretty tired last time. I’ll see her again when she wakes up.”

“Okay.” Tony smiles softly. “Get some sleep, Peter.”

But Peter doesn’t get much sleep—or not much nightmare-free sleep. The second time he rouses, Peter is a little more lucid and no longer thrashes around, but he’s still obviously relieved at the sight of Tony sitting beside him.

“Mr. Stark,” he exhales.

“Still here, kiddo.”

“I… um…” Peter lowers his eyes. “I kinda… I don’t want to go back to sleep right now.”

Tony sets down the tablet he was scrolling through and pulls his chair closer. “Lucky for you, you have the Tower’s resident chatterbox at your service.” When Peter still doesn’t look up, Tony asks in a more serious tone, “You want to talk about it?”

“Can I… can I ask you something?” Peter murmurs.

“Shoot.”

“How long was I in there?”

The innocuous question triggers a painful avalanche of memories in Tony’s mind—videos, threats, the red numbers of the countdown clock. “Thirty-five hours. Almost the full time,” he answers. It seems so simple when it's said that way. Thirty-five hours. Just thirty-five hours. But they're some of the worst thirty-five hours of Tony’s life. “It’s Saturday night now. We rescued you early this morning.”

Peter nods, but Tony can tell there's more on the kid’s mind. Peter takes a deep breath before asking, “And… how long were _you_ in there?”

Tony freezes.

He doesn’t notice he’d clenched his jaw and begun breathing quickly until Peter lays a hand on his arm. “Mr. Stark—God, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Tony shakes his head and waves Peter’s apology away. Peter would have to know eventually. “They told you?”

“I—um—no.” Peter looks up at Tony, as if unsure whether or not he should continue, and when Tony remains silent, Peter sighs. “I might have… worked it out.”

“Yeah? How so?” Tony tries to encourage Peter with a look to keep going, keep talking, while Tony collects his thoughts.

“Did they, um. Keep you in a small gray cell?” Peter asks hesitantly.

“Bingo. But that’s it?” Tony prods. He needs to gauge how much Peter already knows. “You’re the smartest kid I’ve ever met, but even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t go on just a bloodstain in a holding cell.”

“Yeah he could,” Peter argues.

“It’s okay, Pete,” Tony assures him. “You can tell me."

Peter swallows. “Okay. The thing. The giant, round, the… the electric plug.” The way Peter lowers his voice as he says it, makes Tony wonder how much the kid sees the electrocutor in his nightmares too. “Scary. Painful. But it wasn’t made for skin contact, was it?”

Peter lays a hand across his chest, looking up at Tony meaningfully.

Tony’s own chest aches. Unbidden memories replay in his mind. An even bigger avalanche of memories. The sound of those prongs slotting neatly into the thin ports of his arc reactor. The burning of hot metal on his body, his Iron Man suit overloaded with electricity from the plug until it finally deactivated. The ice-cold touch of the reactor that they left on his chest even after they’d pried the rest of his suit off, and the chill that crept down his spine when they brought the electric plug out again and Tony realized what they were planning to do. The grating of his captors’ voices as they interrogated, and demanded, and sent wave after wave of electricity into his body through the centerpiece on his chest.

“No. No, it wasn’t,” Tony replies simply. He flexes a shaking hand.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats, eyes wide as he grips Tony’s arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—you don’t have to talk about—”

“It’s okay.” Tony places his own hand above Peter’s, counting slowly through inhales and exhales. Peter only looks at him, silent. “It had to come up eventually,” Tony sighs, as his heartbeat gradually decreases to a more comfortable rate. “And I… to answer your previous question, I was there for two weeks.”

“Two—?” Peter sits up. “Holy crap! Tony!”

“You didn’t think I’d break contact for that long without a good reason, did you?”

Peter only stares in shock. “ _That_ was your secret mission?”

“For the record, the mission was to take down Hammer and his new Hydra buddies, not get my ass kicked. Tracked those bastards for a while, then… then they caught me. But they made the mistake of transferring to a secondary location after a couple of weeks, and Rhodey busted me out in transit. That was… four days ago.”

“Four days?” Peter throws his hands up, eyes wide. “So what the hell were you doing busting _me_ out? Should you even be walking around right now? Much less fighting for me? Just _four days?_ What the hell, Mr. Stark!”

“You think you could ease up on the fucking language, bud?”

“What. The. Hell.”

“I’ve learned to be pretty resilient.”

“You shouldn’t always have to be.”

Tony cocks his head, mouth caught open in surprise. But before he can reply Peter buries his face in his hands. “Now I get it. God, everything they did to me—they did that to you, too.”

Tony nods. “It’s not like I was never gonna tell you, Pete,” he says softly. “But the whole thing was hush-hush from the start. It had to be.”

“They kidnapped and tortured you. For weeks. And no one told me. I—I could have helped...”

“For your own safety, Peter,” Tony stresses, “we didn’t want you involved. I would have told you afterwards, when I was feeling better, but… well. It turned out there wasn’t that much time.”

“Because they got me.”

“Because they got you.” Tony looks away. “And that—that hurt more than anything else. I’m truly sorry.”

Peter drops his hands from his face. “None of this is—”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner. But I couldn't give in to those kinds of demands, Peter… not for anyone.” Tony knows there’s hurt in his voice, and he can only hope Peter understands. “Not even for you.”

“What did they want?” Peter asks in honest curiosity.

“Same thing they wanted from me before. Access to Stark Industries’ database. SHIELD codes. Information that could have given them control of the Compound, a few other Avengers facilities, the Raft…”

“Wow,” Peter exhales. “The good stuff.”

“I am deep in some classified ‘good stuff,’ unfortunately.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You, really? No way.”

Tony catches himself off-guard with an almost involuntary chuckle. Peter smiles.

“Boss,” FRIDAY’s automated voice interrupts them. “It’s done.”

Thankful for the break, Tony picks up his discarded tablet, swipes through it, and exhales loudly as he processes the information. “Maybe you want to see this.” He turns the tablet towards Peter. “It’s from SHIELD. Hammer and his goons won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Peter takes it and scans through the report on the screen. “All of them?”

“Most already got nabbed when Rhodey rescued me. The people who took you were among the last ones left. It was basically throwing a hail Mary, bargaining with your life. And after we found their headquarters where they were keeping you, it was only a matter of time before the rest of their operation got dragged out by the roots.”

“Good, then… so your plan worked.”

Tony gestures at Peter in general—to his scars and bruises. “At a cost.”

“I’m glad you didn’t give in to their demands.” When a pained look flits across Tony’s face, Peter hurriedly adds, “That information’s worth a lot of lives. You were protecting a lot of people, and—and that’s a heavy responsibility. I get it, Mr. Stark. I do.”

That makes Tony pause. Peter, this wonderful person, is noble and self-sacrificing and heroic—and Tony has always known that. But Peter is also young. So young. “You shouldn’t always have to,” Tony echoes softly.

Peter hands the tablet back silently. Tony returns it to the side table, and when his back is turned, he hears Peter say, “Thank you.” Tony turns back to see Peter’s doe eyes fixed on him. “Thank you for, uh… for coming for me.”

“Kid.” Tony feels a pang in his chest. “Of course I’d come for you.”

“I know. I mean, my mind knows. Does that make sense? I _know,_ know. But it just wasn’t always easy to remind myself… in there.”

Tony swallows hard, a surge of affection and protectiveness overwhelming him. Before the feeling can vanish, Tony gets up and moves to sit on the side of the bed. Peter scooches over to make room for him, and when they’re sitting side by side, Tony wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

He finds himself opening his mouth without anything to say. Peter’s alright now, sure. But there’s no guarantee shit like this won’t happen in the future. There’s no guarantee for either of them. As much as Tony wants to promise his kid safety and protection and all the time in the world, he can’t.

The bandages on Peter’s chest, and the lingering pain in his own, is proof he can’t.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes pass, and he’s still holding Peter, and both of them still haven’t said a word. But then Tony feels the kid slowly relaxing in his arms, loosening up. Peter drops his head against Tony’s shoulder.

“Peter. When you were in there, it’s—it was worse than anything they did to me,” Tony says slowly. It’s not enough, but it’s all he has. “Every second on that countdown was agony. I care about you, kid. We all do. And I want you to hear that, because we all need it said out loud at least once in our lives. I won’t always be fast enough, or—or _enough._ But anytime you need me, I’ll fight for you. Always.”

Peter snuggles closer in Tony’s hold. “I know,” he replies softly. He reaches his arm across Tony’s torso and hugs him from the side. “I know you always do your best for me, Mr. Stark. I mean, you—you rescued me just four days after getting rescued yourself.”

“It still wasn’t soon enough,” Tony says bitterly.

“But it was _enough._ Thank you... for everything.”

Tony closes his eyes. “I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you, too.”

Five minutes. Seven minutes. Tony doesn’t let go until Peter loosens his grip, then they both lean back against the headboard, sighing deeply.

It’s a different sigh of relief—different than the one in the torture room where Tony held Peter for the first time after the rescue—different than when Cho announced that Peter was going to heal normally.

This is the kind of sigh of relief that lets Tony know they’re gonna be okay. Still hurt, still healing, still getting up the next day to face danger once again.

But he and Peter, they’re gonna be okay.

“Okay.” Tony claps once and makes his voice more upbeat as he sits up. “Heart-to-heart, check. What’s next on your bucket list? We can eat if you still don’t want to sleep.”

Peter’s eyes light up, the first time Tony sees them do so since this whole mess started. “I’m starving.”

“Fred Leeds sent some delicacies back with Happy after he heard you were okay. Delmar’s sandwiches? Squished real flat?”

Peter’s laugh brightens the room. “Sounds good.”

“Good. Okay.” As Tony stands, he brushes a hand over Peter’s hair in a quick ruffle. “Just like old times in the workshop, right? Nothing like a late night pig-out.”

“Our body clocks are gonna get seriously whacked,” Peter snickers.

“You know I don’t really have one, so speak for yourself.” Tony turns back at the door, his chest warming at the image of Peter all happy and peaceful, and looking forward to something good. “Don’t worry, Pete,” he says with a smile. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

* * *

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

“Hey, Sticky Notes, seriously—”

“Alright, alright!” Peter drops down from the workshop roof. “Hey! I _stuck_ that superhero landing, am I right?”

Tony rolls his eyes.

“How’d I do?” Peter asks, jogging up to Tony’s table.

Tony consults the stopwatch running on a corner of his screen. “Three hours, fourteen minutes.”

“3:14, pi? You’re making that up.”

“3:15:01, 3:15:02…”

“Okay, okay,” Peter laughs, taking his smartwatch-slash-heartbeat monitor off his wrist. “Dr. Cho’s gonna be pleased with those stamina results.”

“And you’re okay, right?” Tony asks concernedly.

“My sticky is back, so yeah, I’m okay.”

“Because I don’t need you camping out in my medbay any longer than strictly necessary.”

Peter shoves Tony’s shoulder as he reaches across him to grab some pizza from the table. “You know you love me.”

“Do I?”

Peter decides not to push the teasing any further. The look on Tony’s face answers his own question, loud and clear.

Peter and Tony work through the rest of the afternoon, sometimes snacking, sometimes bantering, and sometimes simply sitting in comfortable silence. Peter is deep in research for an improved web formula when he hears Tony clear his throat.

“Kid? May and Pepper are waiting upstairs with dinner, and you know I promised to start doing healthy stuff like that while we’re recuperating.”

Peter shuts his holographic screen down and follows Tony towards the elevator. “At least I know my next checkup with Dr. Cho’s gonna go well. How are you doing?”

“Heart’s better.” Tony shrugs. “And it helps to be doing some work without, y’know, any lives at stake. But what I’d give for your healing factor.”

“Ah, your old bones can do it, too, Mr. Stark. Recovery isn’t linear.”

“Sure is taking its sweet time,” Tony grumbles, mussing up Peter’s hair. Peter's laughter escapes through the elevator doors right before they close, echoing around the workshop.

Recovery isn’t linear. But, Peter smiles at the thought, he and Tony have their own little family. And they have each other. They have enough.

"Hey." Peter smiles up at his mentor. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers for my first! ever! fanfic with song lyrics for a title (took me long enough hahaha). Would love to hear what you thought of it <3


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